


Djevelens Polka

by Meretrix



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Blackmail, M/M, Past Abuse, Psychotropic Drugs, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:13:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meretrix/pseuds/Meretrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hello, little Pyro. What's wrong? Is the world mean and scary?<br/>Why, yes. It is. But that's what I'm here for.<br/>Do what I tell you to do and I'll show you the way out...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The one with the introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Pyros POV.  
> The rating will go up, it will be f*cked up, it will confuse you, but hey, it's the Pyros mind. Wouldn't it be disappointing if he'd be rational and calm?
> 
> Also, English is not my mother tongue, sooo... complain if there are any grave mistakes.  
> DON'T complain because if it is too abstruse for you (in that case, ask).

I

A deep duct and cold, soughing air. A weak whiff of gas.  
(Here I’ve been born, here I will die)  
On hands and knees I crawl through the dirty tunnel and pray that I’m asleep, am dreaming or drugged, but the more I fight against this thought the more it sinks its teeth into my flesh like a dark, wild animal.  
“You want them?”, a smiling voice asks in my head.  
“Yes. Yes, please. Give them to me, I want them- I need them.”, I mumble away to myself.  
The tunnel is wide and it feels like I’m crawling backwards through time to a day before I arrived here, arrived in this slaughterhouse. My only companion are my own gasps for breath.  
“You want them?”, the voice asks again.  
“Please. Yes, please, give me them.”  
“Then you have to something for me.”  
“Anything.”  
The voice laughs.

It’s not a dream. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, but it’s not a dream and I’m real. The tunnel ends abruptly and I heave myself out into the dusky light of a control room. A barely audible hum fills the four walls which are now protecting me from the world outside where the killing and dying goes on.  
I yank off the gasmask and breath in too deeply.  
It’s my fourth day without the medication and I want to die, but the Doctor tells me that I have to persevere now or I would relapse. After the incident with the Boy my ration had been chopped to the bare necessities and I cried and screamed and in my anger shattered half the sickbay to pieces. The Doctor remained silent, let me ravage until I was exhausted just to sedate and me afterwards (sixty times sixty times twentyfour, four naked walls and a straightjacket, fixed and strapped on a cot).  
Sometimes I think I love the Doctor but then I don’t know, should I worship him or chop him up, cut him into pieces, burnmutilatelaceratemaim-  
My head aches.  
Another way too deep breath. I want to gut myself.  
But I’m not allowed to, no, sir. Not now, not here. So I hit my head against the wall, trying to startle my thoughts. Think, brain. That’s what you exist for. That's the only reason I don't bash you into a wall.  
I mean, I don’t have to do too much to get a few of the colourful little pills. It’s really not that much.  
Ours won’t do it, no. He respects the Doctor too much to steal from him, no matter how much I would beg. I could cry my eyes out but he would just glance at me the way he glances me, with this expression that makes me want to throw up (“Dégoûtant.”, he says, yeah, that’s the word, yes, sir, I’ve been good, I’ve remembered it). It makes my belly tingle, I get butterflies in my tummy while acid eats me away from the inside.  
Dé-goût-ant. No, ours won’t do it. No matter what I would do for him. To him.  
But the Other One would.  
 _Yes _. Oh, yes.__  
He’d do it. If I play along.  
“Then you have to something for me.”  
(Don't think about him! ... Too late, too late!)  
But I don’t even want to look at him. So how am I supposed to talk with him?.. But then again, I don’t want to look at anybody (except the Doctor), hear anybody (except the Doctor). Oh, if only my mask could keep the world out of my head… I just want to live in my small, colourful world, only want to laugh and be happy. This place here is too cold and severe, too red and too loud. (Poor me.) But there he is, like Cerberus himself, blocking the door that leads me away from here. If I want to flee from here I will have to pass him. And for him allowing me to pass-  
My head, my poor head. My head is about to burst.  
 _Then you have to- ___  
I can’t help but scream. I scream out all the frustration, the hate, the fear of this place, this abattoir, out of my lungs till saliva runs down my chin and I barely can breathe, till my skull is filled by the echo of my own raucous voice, till my heart begins to hurt.  
Nothing’s fair, anything goes.  
If there is no other way then I’ll do something for him. As long as it brings me away from this place I will do bloody everything for him. Whatever the cost.


	2. The one with the deal

II

He gives my gasmask a curious tug. Between mask and suit his fingers are searching for naked skin, are trying to pull the former up.  
I slap his hand away.  
“Relax. I barely understand a word you’re saying with that thing on your head.”  
“That’s because you don’t listen.”, I reply and squirm inside. I don’t like the way he looks at me, the way he smiles. He’s to stop holding the cigarette like this between his lips, it’s indecent.  
It’s the sixth day without the medication.  
The Doctor asks me to tell him about my parents. But the question confuses me and so I say nothing. I put them in a small box and ignited it. This word has no content for me, no meaning. Loose, strung together letters, nothing more. (Sometimes I wish I would have also burned THEM- or did I already do it? I can’t remember. Don’t want to remember it anymore).  
The Other One blows smoke into my face and finally throws the cigarette to the ground.  
“You have any scars?”, he asks and examines me with perverted interest.  
I hate the colour of his eyes. Babyblue. It’s making me sick but I stay positive. The Doctor told me to always stay positive, always think about the tomorrow, the world will look differently by then. Oh, he’s right. I’ll stay positive and I’ll get all my pretty bonbons. A few small, white ones for a dreamless sleep so I won’t remember anything, pink ones for a gate to the rainbow world- I’ll be gone, gone, gone! Forever and ever gone to a place where they can’t find me, can’t touch me.  
”I don’t want to talk about my parents.”, I say.  
He rolls his eyes and curses in his secret language. Dé-goût-ant.  
”Mon Dieu, I can’t understand a word!”, he snarls at me and before I can do anything about it his hands enfold around my neck and fiddle with the maskend.  
The grip around my neck is firm; if he would strangle me now I wouldn’t mind (Do it, do it! You—am a monster!).  
The moment he finally (finally! Oh, finally! Yes, do it, finally!- Please don’t) pulls up my mask over my face I bite my lip so hard I taste blood and freeze like a deer in the headlights of an onrushing car (run me over!).  
“Ah, that’s better. And look at this skin mosaic. Did the little firefly play too often with flames?” His laughter is dark and I want to cut his throat open just to never again hear this sound.  
“The two of us, you and I, we will have much fun.”, he says and pats my burnt cheek. I hardly feel the touch through the dead tissue. “Oh, and before I leave: a small test.” His smile becomes suggestive. “Just to test your submission to our little contract.”  
“Not my parents!”, I snap automatically.  
“No, not your parents, mon fou.”, he whispers and the way he says it confuses me.  
“Cross your arms behind your back,”, he orders while directing the turn with his finger, “and leave them there until I tell you to stop. If you decline you can forget our deal.”  
I nod and obey. Afer all, he can’t hurt me. Nothing can hurt me. And so I’m not afraid of whatever he will do, of what he wants to test. I feel disgust, yes. Hate, sure. But I’m not afraid (I’m only afraid of one thing, of one Thing, of a Thi-son, a Per-ng).  
He slides a claiming gloved finger into my mouth and as far as he can down my throat. I can taste the smoke and the ash of the cigarette on my tongue.  
Suddenly it feels like someone has thrusted a gun barrel into my mouth, I gasp and swallow and fight for breath. And then I retch.  
He strokes my tongue when he withdraws his finger – and not too late; I still have my hands behind my back when I turn away, bend over and throw up. My eyes are tearing and the sour taste of bile fills my mouth.  
I hate him, I bloody hate him so much in this moment, I hate that he exposes me, shames me like this, that he touched me like he did, that he looks at me with this self-satisfied grin that reaches his eyes, that I feel so naked in front of him. I want to hurt him.  
But Elysium is close, so painfully close and only he can grant me my sweet, poisonous salvation to rescue me from this place and so I simply choose to forget, to forgive. For now.  
I let him do whatever he wants, let him be whoever he wants to be.  
Maybe I will kill him, cremate him once he won’t be of use anymore. But not as long as I need him.  
He laughs again.  
”Oh, mais oui! We will have so much fun.”  
(His exectution is lurking already, he just doesn’t know it yet)


	3. The one with the trip

III

The Doctor assumes there is something inside me. Deep-rooted, he says.  
“A parasite?”, I ask and fiddle with the stethoscope he thrusted into my hand before positioning the syringes needle. The cold metal fascinates my skin.  
He shakes his head and says it’s more like a trauma.  
The first time he jabbed me with a syringe I knocked him down. There was a big fuss, the others said mean things about me, yelled, cursed, wanted me sedated. Only the Doctor remained calm and said he’d understand.  
 _What _he claims to understand beats me. I mean, even I don’t understand anything.__  
I sprained my ankle, limp around the base while in pain and move my head in circles, up to left, down, then right. My neck creaks but I go on and on; the world is round, the Doctor likes me, the others avoid me. _Mon fou. ___  
It’s the ninth day without the medication. I’m feeling good. I think.  
The Doctor tells me he’s very proud of me and I’m bashful and my heart is racing and I blush. The others avoid me.  
Only the Other One, he wants to see me. He grinds his partly smoked cigarette into my skin and calls me mon fou and I want to quarter him because the Doctor is very proud of me and maybe, if I’ll be a good boy and openmymouth- and abide by the medication regulation, by the restrictions the Doctor imposed on me (just for my wellbeing, he said), then I’ll get my beloved painkillers. After all, my ankle hurts.  
“It _is _a parasite.”, I said aloud during a meeting and move my ankle in circles. Ouch, ouch. Ha, ha, ha.  
I’m not stupid, okay? It has to be a parasite. One, that devours my dreams and regurgitates nightmares. __

Soon the days will come when they all leave. Never for too long, of course. Once you’re here you can’t leave. You will always come back, whether you want or not. I never leave.  
The Boy wants to see his mommy (me too, me too), the Doctor wants to see his wife. The others just want to flee from the slaughterhouse. They never tell me where they are fleeing to. Maybe they’re afraid I’d follow, but I wouldn’t (really, you have to believe me).  
During these days I’m all alone with the parasite inside my head and my promise to the Doctor that I won’t take all my few pills at the same time to enjoy a short trip but to take them wisely whenever I’m in pain. But I have to break the promise, I’m very sorry.  
Because I have to visit an execution. Mine, to be precisely.  
My farewell to the slaughterhouse, how lovely, how delightful! The Other One hands me a small white stamp and I put it on my tongue.  
“A ticket for the journey.”, I say and he laughs. 

Wide, wide open. A staggering, dark, gaping tunnel filled with teeth and a train rushing through it, painfully and demanding.  
A babyblue room at the end. I _hate _that colour.__  
The Boy is scared by me and I’m scared by him. For him.  
I’m scared by this place and its residents, by this babyblue walls and by everything and everybody. But it’s alright because I’m not here, I’m a balloon and I can just leave, nobody will hinder me. I’ll leave the Boy behind, he doesn’t matter to me, neither does his wailing. Go ahead, be a good kid and ask your mommy for help, she won’t believe you anyway, it won’t work. She’s the one who sent you to the slaughterhouse, who left you in the beginning, that slinky little whore.  
You will have to save yourself. I’m gone, goodbye, farewell.  
My destination is colourful, beautiful. It’s the land where everybody is happy and where little babyblue rooms are burned down in a bonfire. A land where the smoke of cigarettes and the Other One could never exist. But the Doctor, he’s there and he has been waiting for me.  
I’m so ecstatic that I could destroy everthing.  
Now it finally feels like coming home, with everybody around me and being glad that I’m finally there. They missed me, they waited to play a game with me, not to yell at me or curse me. It’s all about me, only me. Everybody loves me and I love the Doctor with his protecting hands around my head thatkeeppushingmyy-y-y-y- what? Let’s not think of that. Let’s play instead. We shall play hide and seek, that’s a nice game. Let’s play it. Now.  
Run. _(run faster)_  
Hide. _(hide better)_  
Hide in the closet (no, not there), hide under the bed (NO, NOT THERE), hide behind the Doctor. Yes. The Doctor. The only grown-up between us. He will protect me, won’t he? Or I could hide inside my mouth, I’d be the winner. Nobody could find me there.  
And even if, the Doctor would take care that nobody hurts me, right?  
Because he likes me the most. Right?  
He will protect me. Please. Please protect me, I’m so- 

With a gasp and my face in red desert sand I wake up in some sort of bailey, far away from any of the bases, almost in the haunting nothing of the land. The sun is setting (or is it rising?) and spit and sand stick to my cheek. I sit up and spot the Other One leaning against an old bedraggled shack, smoking and the face a mask beneath a mask (ha, ha).  
“What did you do?”, I ask him but he only grins viciously.  
“Nothing.”, he lies, that impudent creature, and I burst with rage. My voice shakes and I slur because of my numb tongue. It’s not allowed to lie! No, it’s not allowed, no!  
”What did you do?!”  
“Nothing.”  
I’m frustrated and I screech, I hit my fists against the ground but never get up.  
“You touched me! You touched me and groped me and opened my mouth! You disgusting man! You touched me! How could you? How?! You’re supposed to protect me, not to hurt me!”  
I cry, I tear apart, I break. He remains silent, only watches and smokes. Then, eventually, I calm down and stare at him with red eyes.  
“What did you do?”, I ask once again. Snot runs over my lips.  
“I just watched and listened. And I must say, very fascinating, pauvret.” 


	4. The one with the gun

IV

My bedroom used to be babyblue when I was about ten.  
When I tell the Doctor about it he only nods. It’t hot in the sickbay and I’m sitting naked on the cot while he ausculates my heartbeat. Maybe I caught a fever and will finally die. When I say it out aloud the Doctor wants to take my temperature but I refuse to take the thermometer into my mouth. With clenched teeth I sit in front of him and shake my head like a lunatic.  
“Not into the mouth.”, I whine.  
Please, please don’t.  
The Doctor simply gets another thermometer and tucks it into my armpit. He mentions that the result won’t be quite accurate, but I don’t care. Not into the mouth.  
“What would be more efficient? Maybe I’m burning to death right now without ever knowing.”  
Calm and buisnesslike (because he is the Doctor, he really doesn’t give a fuck about such things) he says rectally and the mere thought of it makes my brain explode into a small, chaotic firework. I want to know how it would feel, want to touch this hotplate. And after all, this is the Doctor and I’m not afraid of him (right! …right?) – but the same time I’m ashamed and anxious, want to chase off the thought of it before it reaches my cock with tentative, exciting, sharp claws. I have to be quick, the Doctor can’t see it. I mean, what will he think of me?  
So I bend forward and hit my head against my knees, begin to hum a loud and crooked melody into my lap.  
This way he won’t see it, no, he won’t. I'm very smart, okay?  
Instead of scolding me for my childish behaviour he lets me do whatever I do, takes the thermometer and writes something down. He says the temperatur is fine and I’m slightly disappointed. The examination goes on, everything is alright, everything is boring. The ankle makes good recovery.

I envy him.  
Mine are short and stocky whereas the Boys legs are long and shapely. I want to sink my teeth in them, taste his pale young flesh.  
Maybe I will.  
Hunger drove me out of my room and into the kitchen where I now rummage through the cupboards, greedy and blind I push around cans and conserves without finding something I lust after. The Boy enters the room and now I know what I want. But I’m not allowed to do anything. Don’t want the Doctor to get angry with me, no, sir.  
He eyes me suspiciously and measures the distance between us, I know it, just in case I’d try something. My hands tingle and I bite my tongue.  
What do I care for anyway? He can’t see me, can’t see me watching him, I can stare as much as I want to. But he tenses, he must know I’m watching him, he must have a x-ray vision like one of he superheroes from the comics I read before Ibecaaame a biiigboy. A superhero who can fly and whose looks can kill and-  
The Boy tells me to stop gawking like an idiot, he asks what my problem is, asks if I’m retarded.  
I really want to break his pretty legs. He won’t be able to run away then.  
When he rants on and gets louder I only shrug.  
The Boy is so predictable that it almost makes me laugh. He will turn his back on me, will be vulnerable for a split moment in which I will close the distance between us in two, three large steps. I’m not hurting him (this time), I don’t do anything wicked (this time), I only pinch the white flesh of his left thigh, just beneath his ass but it’s enough for him to lash out on me (and miss), to call me a sick degenerate and then, even though he probably regrets not beating the shit out of me with his baseball bat, storming out of the kitchen. He is more of a coward than he likes to think.  
This will definetly have an aftermath.  
At least I hope for it.  
Because then he will have to come closer and that time I won’t be satisfied with such an innocent touch. The next time I will give him a reason to flee for real.  
I just have to be careful so the Doctor won’t find out.

“Do you touch yourself?”, he asks me while I lean with my head between my knees against the shack. It’s an early morning, the work rests because of negotiations between RED and BLU. He refuses to give me the pills until I amuse him enough. I let my jaw hang and feel the saliva dribble down my chin. I’m too tired to wipe it away.  
I have no answer for him and so I remain silent.  
“Well. _I _am patient.”, he says and then he rattles shortly, maddeningly with the pillbox. “How patient are _you _?”____  
I will thrust my shotgun into his mouth, way down to his stomach and then I will pull the trigger. That’s a promise.  
“Yes, for fucks sake.”, I moan. I want that bloody pill, want a dreamless, comatose sleep which will let me forget his voice. I haven’t slept for fourtyeight hours now because I’m too scared of nightmares.  
“How often?”, he persists and I’m sure he is lurking with the nightmares in front of my door.  
“Very often. Very, very often.”  
I feel him watching me. He waits- I don’t satisfy his curiosity enough.  
“Every day, every morning and evening and sometimes between the breaks. Every time I get ammunition or when nobody watches me. My cock is my best friend, I jerk off every free minute. Happy now, you sick degenerate?”  
I groan with anger, want to cry because I’m so exhausted and I feel like burning alive.  
But my tackiness makes him laugh; with gloved fingers he takes out one pill, gets up and holds it, delicate like a pearl, in front of my face. I want it so badly.  
“Do it now and you’ll get something nice.”  
“It’s too hot.”  
“Do it.”  
“I’m not in the mood.”  
“Do it.”  
“Too hot.”  
He waits. Again he only waits and hysterical laughter is rising up my throat, now I’m going insane, I’m sure. He blackmails me and I know it, I could just walk away and tell the Doctor about everyhing and he will forgive me for breaking his rules and take me back and love me and protect me and…and I will have a hard time, will suffer and cry while I sober up from the drugs. I could just go.  
Instead I claw at my suits zipper and peel myself out of it. Beneath the suit I’m sweaty and naked, I didn’t bother putting on clothes during a stalemate. Maybe the stench will disgust him and he’ll leave me alone. But he doesn’t care. Lady Luck is a slinky whore with babyblue eyes, she’s never on my side.  
I struggle off the suit and sit almost naked in front of him.  
He waits. His glance is making me sick.  
Then I turn my head away, stare into distance and take my cock in my hand. I’m not in the mood but I begin to masturbate even though I realize after a moment that my own touch doesn’t erect me. I just hope that hand and penis will quickly finish whatever they’re trying to do down there- I really don’t want to disappoint or bore him, whatever the reason for that thought is.  
It feels like I would leave my body any moment now and I guess I could be quite a philosophical soul, always wondering, always curious if I weren’t so fucked up. So fucked up that the only thing that prevents me from throwing up in my lap is the thought of the Other One lying in front of me with his eyes sewn up. That way he won’t be able to look at me.  
Or his legs and arms ripped off. No running, no touching.  
He would have to lie there, being pretty and defenseless. Yeah, I’d like that.  
I’d like him to be afraid of me.  
I bite the inside of my cheek until it really starts to hurt, my hand is getting faster, somewhere in the distance a bird is screaming. My stomach prickles, the insides of my thighs prickle.  
“Open your mouth”, he commands calmly and I obey without even thinking about it when he slides something cold and hard between my lips. My tongue licks over it and my movement is becoming faster, I can feel me reaching the orgasm.  
The thing in my mouth is being shoved further down my throat and for a split second my head stops working, my body quivers and I die. And then it’s nothing but bloody over; sperm is sticking to my belly, the thrill is subsiding and the Other One pulls his gun barrel out of my mouth. It’s glistening with spit.  
When I finally look at him after moments of avoiding his eyes I see him grinning smugly. My teeth bang so hard together as if they weighed tons.  
“Très bon, lampyre.”  
When he holds out the pill towards my face I jerk my head away from the offending hand, refuse to take or even touch it. My head goes left, right and left again until he loses his interest and sighs, flicks the pill into the sand and leaves me.  
My stomachs begins to hurt. Again. All I do the last weeks is throwing up but I can’t explain why.  
I wish I was a philosopher. Maybe then I’d know.  
When the Other One is finally gone I lay down for a bit (only five more minutes, I promise) and breath heavily through my nose just to avoid opening my mouth again. He should have shot me when he had the chance. I’d gladly accept it, really.  
Then, without knowing the reason I begin to cry, wipe away tears, snot and spit off my face and wish to go home, wherever that place is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, well.  
> I'm not really good at making notes, but here is one:  
> This shit is getting longer and more macabre. I think.


	5. The one with the teeth

V

What really made my belly tingle (that is, right before my head hit the floor and the world started to spin around) was the fact that he could heave me. I was always quite sure the the Towser with his long, muscular arms could easily break my neck, but to pick my whole body up like I was nothing more but a toy? I had never even dared to dream about it before it happened.  
The Doctor is angry – with him, not with me. And that makes me so happy because now he only pays attention to me, cares more about me than about the others. But I can barely enjoy it; a bloody ocean is running down out of my nose and mouth for my front teeth have been knocked out by the impact. Morphine is rushing through my veins, I’m high and giggling and humming an old nursery rhyme. One, two, one two. It’s a polka, one that I want to forget.  
The Doctor starts the medigun, in a few moments he will open my mouth to, as he claims, cut out the broken roots of my teeth so that he can reconstruct them. But I’m not stupid, okay? I know what he wants to do, he wants to fuck my mouth, yes, sir.  
I squint my eyes and hysterical laughter makes my insides squirm.  
“But not into the mouth, you hear? Don’t wanna swallow – not if I can avoid it. If… if I have to I will, but I really don’t want it, okay?”  
The Doctor tells me to calm down.  
“Only if I don’t’ have to swallow.”  
He glances at me with a mixed expression, cautious and wary at the same time, just as if I would burst into tears. Or snap. Or both. I can’t really blame him, my moodswings are getting worse and worse by day.  
Firmly and carefully he presses me onto the cot and I begin to kick against the leathery footboard, dig my nails into it, but nontheless I stay lying down, now tensed.  
The Doctor asks me to open my mouth. I don’t want to, no, no, no, no, no, no---  
But it’s the Doctor. If I did it for the Other One, then why the fuck not for him? For him I would cut my belly open, for him I would undress, only he could do whatever he wants to do to me, with me, everything that pleases him and- I laugh out loud.  
“Can’t you do it rectally? Just like with the thermostat?”, I ask and he makes that short, small sound that reminds me of a laugh or a sigh, then he shakes his head.  
I like that sound, I like it very much. I turn my head to the side, spit out all the blood that pooled up in my mouth and shut it again forcefully like an iron gate. The Doctor asks me not to do it again. He says I would push the broken teeth further into the already injured flesh.  
Oh, _sure _(but I’m not stupid, okay? No, sir, I’m not). A scornful snort and I spit blood over chin and chest.__  
”I’m not that naïve!”, I throw in his face and kick again against the cot. He argues that he neither said nor thought I was and that makes me halt for a moment. If anything, he says, he thinks I’m quite smart and that he can’t understand why I make myself suffer more. I like that, like the way he looks at me now, with that reassuring smile and that kind voice and…  
“I am _very _, very smart, okay?”, I begin with childish pride, but it doesn’t last, “Even if I have to open my mouth I won’t swallow ‘cause, you know? It’s my decision! Not yours! Only mine, okay? And I will only open if you won’t make me swallow because this is- I won’t swallow, okay?! If you will make me swallow I will throw it up, I know how to do that, I’m very, very smart. I won’t sw- please, do I have to? I don’t want to. Please, I don’t want to open my mouth! Do whatever you want, but not this!”__  
I’m not laughing anymore. My innards are knots, are snakes.  
The Doctor remains silent. He watches me.  
I don’t want him to watch me, not like this. I squirm under his eyes. If he won’t stop it I will grab the scalpel and cut off his face. Yes, that will be good. That would be the punishment for looking at me as if I was a bloody psychopath. Which I am not.  
"Stop it.", I command. No reaction. I have to sit on my hands. I don't really want to hurt him. Everybody else, yes, but not the Doctor, not him. But he still looks at me like that. If he won’t stop right now I will flay him and make a scarf out of his skin, he will say he is sorry, he will say he won't hurt me again and he won't do that thing or I will break all his bones, will-  
I get hard. The Doctor sees it.  
“ _No _.", I gasp, "No, please-“, I stutter without knowing what I’m pleading for.__  
He says everything is alright and gets up. I want to jump up, to run, to hide, to- No, no, no, no this can't be happening right now, not the closet ag ain I no, not him, why h im-  
The Doctor has brought a syringe. With wide eyes I watch him injecting me with narcotics. He will take protect me, right? _Right?! _Everything begins to blur and then-__  
The moment I wake up I feel disorientated. The Doctor is sitting at his desk, making some notes, it’s the early evening and on the tray rests a surgical gag, covered in blood. With my tongue I stroke my new teeth.  
Everything is alright, I tell myself while I limp through the empty, sparsely illuminated corridors this night. I’m too afraid to sleep.

I avoid the Towser for a while. Or at least that’s what the Doctor wants me to do. But I can’t sit through it and follow him around the building to pester him. He can’t see my face (it’s better this way, it is glowing because of a slight fever and my horrible thoughs) - except for the Doctor and the Other One nobody has seen it – and so he can’t know I’m watching him out of the corner of my eyes. My interest in the Boy is gone for the moment, my head is full of pictures that make me blush and the protagonist in this fantasies is definetly not a skinny, foulmouthed young man. No, not this time. I watch the Towser and grin.  
Maybe I can coax him into breaking my neck, maybe he will crack my skull if I ask him nicely. Maybe he will tear me apart.  
I would enjoy it. If I would survive I’d be center of the Doctors attention. If not I would be dead. It’s a win-win, no matter what happens. My heart beats wildly as I begin to make circles around the Towser, with swaying movements I follow him at every turn like the moon follows the earth. Sometimes I move just into his reach only for him to growl warningly. That sounds only arouses me and I’m smirking as I approach him provocatively just to pull back again in the last moment. It’s a game, the best game I played in the last few weeks.  
He says, with enforced calm, that the Doctor asked him not to hurt me again and that I shouldn’t provoke it. He says, if I respected the Doctor, I should listen to him.  
I laugh in his face. Really, I don’t give a damn about it. I’m on the safe side (I think) and ignore his words, try to jab his arm when he suddenly makes a fierce movement and grabs me by the throat. His right hand almost encloses my whole neck as he slams me against the wall of the corridor. The throbbing pain only makes me more excited.  
He can’t harm me anyway without the Doctor being angry with him (‘cause, after all, _he _was the one to attack me, he's the bad one right now, okay?). He will have to let me go, even though I don’t want him to. We’re exactly where I wanted us to be.__  
The closeness and the pain let me open my mouth, this feeling of being completely at his mercy makes things with me I don’t want to think about. But at the same time the lack of breath and the dark spots which cloud my view trouble me- what if I lose consciousness before he kills me? That’s not something I want to miss, no, sir. I squirm in his hold, gasping for air. He only squeezes harder. This is it.  
Carefully I reach for his hand around my neck, slowly and measured (it’s no attack, you see? I’m not attacking you, be gentle when you kill me) and he lets go the second I touch his skin. I slump against the wall and cough, gag, spit into my gasmask. I see him wipe his right hand on his pants as if it was dirty.  
“Why didn’t you do it?”, I ask him, but I see only confusion on his already irritated face. He can’t understand what I say. So he tells me to leave him alone, tells me keep out of his sight. I laugh at his words even though I don’t find them funny. He turns around and moments later I am once again all by myself.  
If he thinks I’ll leave him alone he is not a smart man. I will get his reaction, no matter how. I want him to react on me, now more than ever. He won’t be able to ignore me, oh, he won’t. Not as long he interests me, not as long as he delights me. Not as long he detests and despises me. I will get his attention. That tower, that mountain of a man.  
I want him to push me against the wall in a different way. Yes, that would be nice. I want him to dominate me, to ram me into the ground, to beat me into a gory little heap.  
I want to cease existing.

The Other One whistles in astonishment when he sees the colourful bruises on my neck.  
”What nonsense did you get up to?”, he asks and reachs out to touch it until I groan hoarsely. Earlier it felt good, now it only hurts. And I don’t want his hands on me now.  
“I irked a giant.”, I croak.  
“Mh. You must be really desperate.”, he mutters and strokes my lips with his thumb. Then he quickly pulls away as I try to bite him.  
“What am I desperate for?”, I ask.  
“Sex.”  
”No, I’m not.”  
“But of course not. You’re not a horny, disfigured little something that risks a beating just because you’re hurting for touch.”, he says and grins.  
“I don’t even like sex.”, I snap back.  
“How would you know?”  
 _Good question, next question. ___  
“I just know it. I know myself better than you do.” I think.  
“Mon œil, fou.”, he says and smiles at me while he plays with my suits zipper. “Though, I guess I wouldn’t be too eager for it aswell if during my childhood someone would have-“  
He can’t finish that sentence because I know where it is going and even though I know its just a stupid lie I don’t want to hear it. So I shut him up. He might be faster than me, but I am stronger and heavier and although he can avoid most of my blows I manage to overwhelm and push him onto the ground. The second I sit on him my anger quickly begins to subside, my hits are getting weaker. He is breathing loudly beneath me, probably in pain. Good.  
“You shouldn’t lie.”, I scold him and bent at my waist to hover my face close over his.  
“And you shouldn’t suppress. Really, maybe you should just try it with someone else.”, he says and wipes with careful fingers the blood off his lips which runs out of his nose. It colours his teeth red and soaks into the balaclava.  
“I don’t suppress anything. You’re just a lying, sneaky piece of shit. I don't like you and I won't talk to you ever again. Also, I’m fine, okay?”, I say, but there is no anger left in my voice. I’m just staring now at his lanky, gloved fingers.  
“Sure you are.”, I hear him mutter.  
He places both his hands on my knees. Then he lets them wander up to my hips.  
“Mh.”, he says coquettishly and grins, “Just look at all my blood.” Like claws his hands dig into my flesh. And slowly, agonizingly slowly and he shoves my pelvis against his own. He does it a second time. The third time I do it. I do it the fourth, the fifth, the sixth time while I push him down against the ground.  
My mouth is wide open. I won’t stop.  
Red suits him too well.  
“You sick puppy.”, he says viciously and laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not posting in a long time.  
> It's difficult to get in the Pyro-mood which means to write without actually thinking about it.  
> (Also, Pendleton. Pendletons. I got Dishonoured and....Pendleton.)


End file.
